ed in ten and entically I made pictures of ter “t race of ter and  in t by visionary dreamers like Ibn Arabi. But I ention of tempting tfully t me declare t all I’ve seen relates specifically to my oances. Any believer tle knoer deat a malcontent in my state he rivers of heaven.

    In s, I,  Effendi, am dead, but I  been buried, and t completely left my body. traordinary situation, alturally my case isn’t t, ed al part of me. t feel my crusially submerged in ice-cold er, I do feel torment of my soul struggling desperately to escape its mortal coil. It’s as if tracting into a bolus of anguish.

    I can only compare traction to t during t of my deatantly understood t tced to kill me ruck me one and cracked my skull, but I didn’t believe  been aware of wween worksely

    to life eeto  bore you ails of t blows I received.

    t of departure; my arrival to t ticed. I closed my eyes as if I o sleep, and I gently passed over.

    My present complaint isn’t t my teets into my bloody mout my face ion, or t I’ve been abandoned in t’s t everyone assumes I’m still alive. My troubled soul is anguis my family and intimates, rivial dealings some delay, pray for me and have me buried. Above all, find my murderer!

    For even if you bury me in t magnificent of tombs, so long as t clessly in my grave, ing and infecting you all  son-of-a-ail just erlife—but knoer ,  be tortured by sloering eigen of ask by torturers and plucking out ing, oily rand by strand, so ime.

    t